“Well!” continued Mazarin, “I shall give you something in exchange for these forty millions you have refused so royally.”
Louis XIV. indicated by a movement that these flatteries were displeasing to him. “I shall give you a piece of advice,” continued Mazarin; “yes, a piece of advice—advice more precious than the forty millions.”
“My lord cardinal!” interrupted Louis.
“Sire, listen to this advice.”
“I am listening.”
“Come nearer, sire, for I am weak!—nearer, sire, nearer!”
The king bent over the dying man. “Sire,” said Mazarin, in so low a tone that the breath of his words arrived only like a recommendation from the tomb in the attentive ears of the king—“Sire, never have a prime minister.”
Louis drew back astonished. The advice was a confession—a treasure, in fact, was that sincere confession of Mazarin. The legacy of the cardinal to the young king was composed of six words only, but those six words, as Mazarin had said, were worth forty millions. Louis remained for an instant bewildered. As for Mazarin, he appeared only to have said something quite natural. A little scratching was heard along the curtains of the alcove. Mazarin understood: “Yes, yes!” cried he warmly, “yes, sire, I recommend to you a wise man, an honest man, and a clever man.”
“Tell me his name, my lord.”
“His name is yet almost unknown, sire; it is M. Colbert, my attendant. Oh! try him,” added Mazarin, in an earnest voice; “all that he has predicted has come to pass, he has a safe glance, he is never mistaken either in things or in men—which is more surprising still. Sire, I owe you much, but I think I acquit myself of all towards you in giving you M. Colbert.”